Lists

Lists Winter morning, frost on the grass and roof; The old pickup truck chugs in the shed beside the house, And he grips the wheel, adjusts his glasses, and stares at a gas gauge that doesn t work. Don't need nothing from the store, he thinks; No point in wasting gas. He just wants to make sure it'll still start. He walks into the kitchen where his wife kneads dough; "You can't beat a GMC," he says and she thinks, punching the mound, Sourwood honey. Black strap molasses. Fresh sweetmilk. These, too, you couldn't beat. She thought in lists now, as earlier that morning When she hung out the clothes that stiffened as the air hit them: Bed sheet; tore in the center. Pillowcase. Jack's handkerchief; won't come clean. Snow clouds. Apple tree; icy limbs bow to the sky. Jack's hound dog; no, woodpile. Stretching the dough, patting it thin, and folding it like a baby's diaper, She hears him cough from his forty-year-old cold, "You can't beat . . ." he says again. No, that's the truth, she thinks, and nods her head. -Julia Nunnally Duncan 20 ...